It came upon the mid­night clear,
That glo­ri­ous song of old,
From an­gels bend­ing near the earth,
To touch their harps of gold;
Peace on the earth, good will to men,
From Heav­en’s all gra­cious king.
The world in so­lemn still­ness lay,
To hear the an­gels sing.

Still through the clov­en skies they come
With peace­ful wings un­furled,
And still their heav­en­ly mu­sic floats
O’er all the wea­ry world;
Above its sad and low­ly plains,
They bend on hov­er­ing wing,
And ev­er ov­er its Ba­bel sounds
The bless­èd an­gels sing.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suf­fered long;
Beneath the an­gel strain have rolled
Two thou­sand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring;
O hush the noise, ye men of strife
And hear the an­gels sing.

And ye, be­neath life’s crush­ing load,
Whose forms are bend­ing low,
Who toil along the climb­ing way
With pain­ful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and gold­en hours
Come swift­ly on the wing.
O rest be­side the wea­ry road,
And hear the an­gels sing!

For lo! the days are hast­en­ing on,
By pro­phet-bards fore­told,
When with the ev­er circ­ling years
Comes round the age of gold;
When peace shall ov­er all the earth
Its an­cient splen­dors fling,
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the an­gels sing.